


Real Memory

by Zare



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zare/pseuds/Zare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just a nightmare, nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be fine, sorry to disturb you.” Her voice sounded firmer after having a minute to collect her thoughts, but it threatened to break at any moment. She refrained from looking at Widowmaker and instead attempted to busy herself with anything else. The usually chatty woman was now silent and sullen and few of words.</p><p>“Tell me about it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time, ah, posting on this site. Let me know if there's any issues I overlooked.

It had always been at the moment of the kill that Widowmaker had never felt more alive. It was the satisfaction of seeing her target fall with ease that made her heart rate jump in the moment, the exhilaration of the kill that made it all worth it. Her heart slowing in concentration, only to beat strongly as the bullet connected. She’d taken pride in her kills, and for the longest time pride was the only emotion she’d felt.

Those days were behind her, to a point. At moments it had seemed like she was able to move past the brainwashing that Talon had put her through. Other times, she remembered that what had been done to her body could never be reversed. She was aware of other emotions, how they had felt, but had yet to re-experience them. It was a trying time, one with very little progression that was immediately followed by regression. Knowing there was something missing and exactly what it was but being unable to reach it would be maddening to the average person. It had occurred to Widowmaker that she might be able to feel again, but that time seemed ages away. She rarely had the glory of a kill nowadays, leaving her feeling emptier than normal most days. It was unlikely she’d be able to feel anytime soon, if ever. She’d accepted what had happened to her. Brainwashing could be reversed; the condition of her body could not. Talon had left its permanent mark on her.

Widowmaker wandered through the empty watchpoint. She preferred the nighttime, when most of the other agents of the newly-reformed Overwatch were asleep. The world took on a silvery-blue tinge under the moonlight, and everything slowed down to match her heartbeat. The hustle of everyday life was replaced with a calm hush. She rarely slept, allowing her to have these moments where there was nothing going on.

So when that hush was disturbed by the faint sound of crying, Widowmaker took it upon herself to investigate.

The sound was soft and coming from somewhere nearby. The quartering unit was on the other side of the base, where most of the base’s residents would be right now. Meaning that whoever was the source of the crying hadn’t just woken up crying. It wouldn’t end any time soon. It originated from the right, the closest door in that direction leading out to one of the watchtowers. With the crying growing louder with each step, Widowmaker followed the sound through the doors and up the stairs.

The door slid open as she approached it, alerting the person on the other side of her presence. The crying halted for a moment, followed by a soft sniff and a tentative hello called out. The voice belonged to Tracer, and Widowmaker spotted her sitting on the floor, back facing the door. Her silhouette was framed by the moonlight and the soft glow of her chronal accelerator, arms wrapped tightly around her legs and pulling them closer to her chest. Her head was tilted towards the entrance in an attempt to see who was there.

“No use hiding, love,” her voice was shaking slightly. “You can come in.”

The door slid shut behind her as Widowmaker stepped forward. The younger woman’s face, now in her line of sight, was red and puffy. Tear streaks ran down her face, some fresher than others. She’d been crying for a while, only now having been caught. There was evidence of sleeplessness in her visage: black bags beneath her eyes, too tired to keep up with expressing any emotion. She certainly hadn’t been sleeping well for some time now. Days, maybe weeks.

“Can’t sleep?” Widowmaker prompted. Tracer stayed silent, running her thumbs over a small object in her hands. A minute passed before she spoke up.

“Just a nightmare, nothing I can’t handle. I’ll be fine, sorry to disturb you.” Her voice sounded firmer after having a minute to collect her thoughts, but it threatened to break at any moment. She refrained from looking at Widowmaker and instead attempted to busy herself with anything else. The usually chatty woman was now silent and sullen and few of words.

Widowmaker paused, weighing her options. She could have left, could have walked out, but curiosity kept her from exiting the room, leaving Tracer to deal with what was plaguing her alone. There was still a chance to back out, to listen to Tracer and leave without a second thought and nothing on her conscience. It would be all too easy to be gone and forget anything had ever happened. But those thoughts were pushed aside when she closed the distance between the two of them and sat down. Tracer stared, sadness replaced partially by confusion. Widowmaker refused to make eye contact, staring at the moon far off in the distance.

“Tell me about it.”

Tracer’s eyes widened. Her head dipped back down and she once again focused on the object. Looking closer, Widowmaker could see a small plane. A model of the Slipstream. She didn’t know much about it, only that it had been a prototype that Tracer had tested out during the early days of its development, and that it was why she relied on the contraption strapped to her body to remain in this time.

“They… happen quite often these days.” Tracer started out slowly. “They’d stopped for a while, but then the recall happened, and the memories came flooding back. Ever since, they’ve been getting worse, more frequent. I know they’re dreams, but it doesn’t make the fear any less real.

“Always the same thing I can see everyone. We’re all together, our little dysfunctional family. I can hear them, observe them. But never interact. They don’t notice me… I’m not real. I’m stuck chasing after them only to be invisible. And it changes, jumps around their timelines. I see their whole lives played out in the wrong order while unable to do anything about it. A literal ghost, not quite there but not gone either. And only when they’re gone, only when their time has run out and there’s nothing left, am I able to be real. And I’m scared. Terrified of that becoming a reality, that this thing on my chest will fail me and I’m gone before anyone can do anything about it, only to reappear somewhere else, having missed all their lives. I’ll cease to exist during their lifetime, only to come back when it’s all gone.”

Tracer stopped, choking back another sob. Widowmaker stayed silent, watching her carefully. She swallowed hard and wiped away the tears that had once again spilled over. “I have this,” she held up the Slipstream model. “It’s supposed to anchor me to the present, remind myself that I can feel things, that I haven’t disappeared. If I can hold it, interact with it, I’m here. I’m real. But that only works so much, you know? After a while, I start to wonder if I’ve just taken it with me.”

Tracer was finished, slipping the object into her jacket. Widowmaker stood up before she could change her mind. A memory had come back, and idea nagging at the forefront of her mind. Tracer didn’t move, no doubt expecting Widowmaker to leave without a word now that she’d heard her story. But she stood there, arm outstretched and palm up until Tracer noticed the lack of footsteps and glanced up. “Get up.”

Carefully, Tracer took Widowmaker’s hand. Her warm fingers wrapped around colder ones and allowed them to pull her up. She watched Widowmaker with a curious expression as the latter pulled them towards the balcony. They exited the interior of the watchtower into the cold night air. Widowmaker spun on her heel, facing Tracer. “Do you know how to dance?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dancing, can you do it?” she restated her question.

Tracer bit her lip. “Um, yeah a bit-”

Widowmaker pulled Tracer close, effectively cutting her off. The hand that wasn’t already entwined with hers came to rest on her waist. Tracer’s face flushed, visible even in the moonlight. She fumbled trying to stand up straight and raising her hand to Widowmaker’s shoulder.

Widowmaker took the lead, guiding the other to a nonexistent beat. She kept it slow, taking care that Tracer, who showed obvious inexperience, could keep up. The occasional misstep occurred, usually where Tracer would step on Widowmaker’s foot, mumbling an apology before continuing. Neither of them spoke except for that. Widowmaker could see Tracer focusing on the task, giving her mind something to do. The sadness faded from her expression with time, and she began to look as if she were enjoying herself. They took solace in the other’s company, needing only physical gestures to communicate. An air of tranquility settled between them, Tracer having effectively had her mind taken off the subject haunting her, and Widowmaker having come to a realization.

She spoke quietly. “Whenever I used to be sad, Gérard would bring me up here. Anywhere outside, really. And we would dance,” the memories were coming back as the words came out. Tracer had buried her hand in the crook of Widowmaker’s neck sometime earlier, but a slightly nod indicated that she was listening. “We would dance for as long as it took for him to cheer me up. Even when he was knee deep in paperwork, he’d shove it all aside for me. Got himself in trouble for it a few times, yet that never stopped him.”

Widowmaker found herself smiling fondly at the thought. A real, genuine smile had graced her face. And as she looked down at the brown tuft of hair that was Tracer, she felt like she was back in those times, when her heart still beat. She was reminded what it felt like to be content.

Something Widowmaker hadn’t felt in a long time had begun to bud in her chest, and she welcomed the feeling. Even a spider could be taught to love, given time.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to contact me on my tumblr about this at foxy-reaper.tumblr.com


End file.
